The halls of Rosings Park are warm with candlelight and light conversation, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside. You arrived that morning, swept in with your elder cousin Eleanor, whose close friendship with Lady Catherine had earned you both an invitation to what your mother had excitedly dubbed the season's most exclusive musical retreat.

You don't expect much. Perhaps some tepid piano concertos, half-hearted courtship from minor lords with more powder in their wigs than charm, some well-made tea. What you certainly hadn't anticipated was him.

Patrick Zweig.

He's taller than rumour suggested, with cold-cut elegance and eyes that seemed to burn right into you. He speaks little, smiles even less, and when he's introduced to you, he merely offers a curt bow. You try not to feel slighted. You're certain you fail.

It's Art who gives you space to breathe, with his open smile and good nature, delighted in your company from the first. You can't fathom how such a lovely man is acquainted with someone as disinterested as Patrick. He begs you to play alongside him during the soirée in the music room, and you reluctantly agree. It'd be rude to say no.

You sit at the pianoforte. Art takes the violin. From the shadows, Patrick watches. But you can feel his gaze on your fingers, on the curve of your wrist, on the dip of the keys. When you finish, the room erupts into applause. Except Patrick. He stares.

"Did he not enjoy it?" You murmur to Art.

"Oh, that's just Patrick. He loves things too deeply to say anything sensible about them."

You find out later—of course you do—that Patrick had dissuaded Art from calling on you too seriously. That he believed you were "clever, but unsuitably matched," and "too quick to judge." The irony nearly makes you laugh aloud. After that, you decide him to be quite insufferable.

Thankfully, you need not interact with him other than in passing for several weeks after that. But when you do, it's rounding a corner right into him at Art's estate.

"Forgive me," he says, retreating half a step.

"No." You surprise even yourself with that refusal. "I don't think I shall." His brow furrows in confusion, but you plough on. "I heard what you said to Mr. Donaldson at Rosings. That I'm clever, but unsuitable. That I judge too quickly."

His silence irks you. "Is it true?" You demand.

He exhales slowly. "It was not meant for you to hear." That much is clear. But the sentiment stands. "I spoke in haste," he continues when he's met with a scowl. "Out of concern for my friend."

"Concern," you echo, laughing bitterly. "What exactly did you think I would do, Mr. Zweig? Seduce him with a Bach fugue and disappear with his fortune?"

"You misrepresent me now," he says tightly. "I meant only that—"

"What?" You interrupt. "That my company is charming, but my station insufficient?"

He stiffens. "You twist my words."

"I don't need to. They're quite sharp already."

There's a long pause. For a moment, you think he's going to cut this conversation short and brush you aside. But eventually, and with great care to keep his voice level, he says: "I had only ever observed that you are... quick to form conclusions."

"Oh, do not flatter yourself. You gave me ample material."

His eyes flash with something an awful like regret. Or maybe restraint stretched too thin. "You seem determined to misunderstand every word I offer," he says.